Sun Eagle
by anagke
Summary: From the world of Lone Wolf by Joe Dever. Two of history's greatest figures-King Ulnar of Sommerlund and Sun Eagle of the Kai-come of age and set their destinies into motion at the beginning of the Helghast Wars.
1. Two Princes

**Author's Note:** This story--which will probably end up novella-length--concerns the rise of two of history's most famous warriors during the Helghast Wars--King Ulnar of Sommerlund and the Baron of Toran, who would become Sun Eagle, the first Kai. I can't promise how steadily I'll be writing, but regular feedback will encourage me to write faster. So please review.

Rain fell upon the sleepy city of Toran in hissing sheets.

Mist rose damply from the cobblestones of the city, which by midday were too slick and wet for even the most insistent of merchants. Yet the good folk of Toran hitched up the hoods of sodden cloaks about their faces, their breath making little aggravated puffs in the chill of the early spring air. They stood three deep along the muddy gutters, held back by the occasional wet soldier, while muddy rivulets trickled down into eyes, off the tips of noses, and drizzled onto stout half-boots.

The King was coming to Toran, and few wanted to miss it. The only people indoors on this miserable day were the very oldest and youngest of Toran.

Under the gauzy arch of a hastily erected canopy, Cetter squirmed. A nine-year-old has only the vaguest understanding of kings and duty, but a much sharper one of _wet_ and _cold._ After ten minutes, the canopy was hopelessly sodden, and now served only to sag heavily above them, releasing an erratic spatter of drips when the wind twisted the cloth too quickly.

Cetter blinked the water out of his eyes. As hard as he tried to stand straight and rigid, eyes focused ahead, he found himself brooding over when the next drop would splash cold and heartless against the nape of his neck. It was sheer torture, enough to make the unpleasantness of a scratchy new tunic and enforced stillness pale in comparison. He bit his lip to stop a yelp when it happened again, but his mother's hands still pinched hard into his shoulder, as though she could sense the fidgets just under the surface.

To distract himself, the boy tried looking around. For the first few minutes of rain, his father had remained astride his great warhorse, gazing out over the sea of cloaked men and women below. When the drizzle became buckets, Baron Ander had dismounted. With a quiet word to the elderly chancellor next to him, he had seen to the raising of awnings all along the street so that most were out of the rain, if not the chill. The crowd had amused itself for a time with ragged cheers for the popular baron, who took such care with the common folk. To set a prudent example, he too had remained under the shelter, but the baron held himself as though not only still mounted, but as though he was about to lead a charge into battle.

His father's dark, deep-set eyes swept over Cetter. Though they barely paused, the boy consciously squared his shoulders and strained to add another two inches of height through posture alone. A smile flickered briefly across the thin lips, but the baron had already moved on. He—like everyone—strained to see as far down the road as he could, before the street snaked into a winding curve, even though he knew that the trumpets and the thunder of hooves would announce the king's arrival long before they could see anything.

Baroness Rutha stood behind Cetter still, hands on his shoulders, and the faint, flowery scent of her perfume overpowered the dullness of the rain for a moment. Rutha's other arm steadied the slim form of his older sister. There had been some discussion—loud discussion—about both Nelia's presence and her attire. Every other acolyte of the Brotherhood stood in silent, white-robed lines behind their Guildmaster many yards away. But Nelia was not only an acolyte but a lady, and their father had decreed that the latter would take precedence over the former today. The slender, blond girl, radiantly gowned in green, kept her head down, her eyes far away. Beside her was Davin, their older brother, his lean face focused on the road.

Cetter had just turned his attention to the servants around them when the trumpets sounded.

As soon as the brassy blare faded, the captain of the baron's guard drew a mighty breath and boomed, "Hail to King Coran of Sommerlund, Lord of the Sommlending, Servant of the Gods, and Commander of the Forces of the Sun!" The last of the king's titles were lost in the roar of the crowd as necks craned towards the bend in the road.

The armored man on the white charger cut a fine figure even in the rain. His ceremonial plate was inlaid in gold, as was the helmet. The visor was open, and Cetter, straining, caught a glimpse of a dark-bearded face. The king rode flanked by guardsmen on all sides—Royal Guardsmen in their fine purple surcoats and shining full mail. It was all very exciting, and Cetter fidgeted again.

Mother's fingers dug, claw-like, into his shoulder. _"Stay still,"_ she hissed.

Father strode forward bareheaded into the rain, heedless of the mud he had to slosh through. The king, despite the heavy weight of his armor, dismounted as lithe as a boy. Baron Ander's bow was formal, deeper than Cetter had ever seen his father do it. But then the king caught him in a rough embrace, as the cheers became deafening.

Behind the king's enthusiastic charger lumbered a massive carriage, all gleaming wet hardwood and gold inlay, led by a team of white horses. Already, a motley mix of Royal Guardsmen and Cetter's family's own servants rushed to erect an awning between the palace steps and the wheels. The king could get as wet as he liked—the Queen and the royal children were another matter.

"Look, Cetter." Nelia caught his arm where it had escaped their mother's grip. The girl pointed. "There, look! There's Queen Imale." The girl's breath caught as the tall, raven-haired woman stepped delicately from the carriage. "Isn't she radiant?" Though she might be a magician in training, Cetter's sister was also only fourteen, and the beauty and majesty of the moment could tug at wizardly heartstrings as firmly as anyone else's. "And there's Princess Arianna, and little prince Ulnar. Beside him, the tall man with the short white beard—that's Earl Gareth, the King's magician." The hawk-faced old man, his silver-and-blue robes appearing dry and clean, surveyed the crowd with a piercing gaze. When it passed over the clustered noble children, Nelia dropped her gaze to the ground again with a little gasp. Free of both commentary and tight restraint, Cetter wriggled with the impulse to sprint into the rain.

"Come now, children." Rutha watched the exchange of bows with a narrow little smile, and her grip tightened on her younger son's shoulder again. "It's time to go inside and make our introductions."

They would not stand in the rain while interminable introductions, pleasantries, and careful delineations of rank took place in front of the common folk. Instead, Baron Ander led his king into the shadowy warmth of the palace, where guardsmen followed to give them a discreet distance.

Cetter looked up at the high-beamed ceiling far overhead. He loved the Great Hall of Toran. At night the room filled with laughter and revelry when the court gathered for supper, and during the day the mood was reverent and solemn. Baron Ander held court here from the heavy gilded chair at the opposite end of the room. But the hall today was most of all warm and dry, and the plush Cloeasian carpet was a relief under sore, wet feet. Mother didn't even cluck at the puddles the royal retinue dragged in with them.

Queen and Baroness were introduced first, to each other and respective husbands. They were startlingly alike side-by-side, two tall, dark-haired women in flowing, brightly colored silk. Cetter was too far away to hear the words of introduction, and didn't much care to. His attention was now on the boy standing—well, fidgeting—at the king's side.

Prince Ulnar—for he had to be—was a boy Cetter's own age, a solemn-faced youth with brown hair in a brocaded green velvet tunic. He met Cetter's eyes and executed a short bow, graceful with long practice. Cetter bowed in return. The boy met his eyes and grinned, and something in that open expression kindled a grin of his own. The two youths shared an irrepressible expression of kinship in the solemn hall, a look that promised hours of games.

"—my sons, sire," his father's deep voice was saying. "Davin, my heir, and Cetter, my youngest."

Hearing his name, Cetter bounded to his father's side. He resisted the impulse to shake himself like a puppy to rid himself of the rain bogging down his clothing and slicking his hair. Davin was already bowing, murmuring smooth pleasantries. Davin could be trusted to comport himself with dignity—or so Cetter had heard many times from his tutors.

The king had removed his helmet upon entering the safety of the indoors. Sommlending warriors always traveled under arms, even within a friendly city. The terrible War of Desecration and the many skirmishes and raids since had impressed upon the Sommlending the need for constant vigilance. For the same reasons, the Great Hall was no place of luxury and decadence. The palace—and the entire city—had been designed in the interests of defense. Both had thick walls, heavy gates, and narrow, high slit-windows when there were any windows at all. The halls of the palace, like the city streets, were filled with hidden alcoves and rooms in which soldiers stood vigilant guard, and turned and twisted like mad into blind passes and sharp corners. Only once had a Darklord army taken the entire city. If it happened again, even the chambermaids knew how to use the hallways and alcoves to their advantage. Even the children—Cetter had spent long hours at play lobbing imaginary arrows at Giaks from around sharp stone-walled corners, slipping into shadowy alcoves to plot ambushes in hushed voices with servant children.

But today the most interesting thing about the palace was the king in it. Coran was a broad, muscular man, his thick dark hair now shot through with silver. He was not so much bearded as unshaven, his whiskers rough and scraggly rather than matching Baron Ander's neat chin-beard. But the whiskers could not disguise the strong chin, the firm, smiling lips, nor the active, bright blue eyes. In wetly gleaming mail, the jeweled sword of the Sommlending kings glinting over his shoulder, he was a heroic figure, especially to a nine-year-old boy who had slain many an imaginary Giak in his name. Cetter was charmed before the king even opened his mouth, but the rush of adrenaline in his ears made it hard for him to follow the adult chatter. Mother would be furious if Cetter ignored a question from the king. He blinked water from his eyes and tried to focus.

"—taken the oath?" Coran was asking. The king's voice was higher than one would expect for so large a man, Cetter thought, a tenor instead of a baritone. But he was radiant and powerful and wonderful, and Cetter was prepared to ignore minor flaws.

"Almost two years ago, sire," he piped before his father could answer. "I'll renew it this week with my father and brother in the Great Hall. I'm nine now, and I can start my weapons training after that. And then, a year after _that,_ I'll be a page, and a squire when I'm fourteen."

"Enough, now," Ander murmured, touching the child's wet, dark blond hair fondly.

The king grinned. "A fine boy—two fine boys—" he corrected with a smile for Davin. The lean youth bowed again in acknowledgment. Davin was a slight, shy boy, more interested in his books than his weapons training. But he, like all Sommlending boys—and more than a few girls—had taken the oath of Fehmarn, and would serve in the king's army against the Darklords. There were no other options. Cetter was too young to know the snickers of other boys, the poorly hidden disappointment of a father, the taste of blood and ringing ears from a weapon master's poorly parried blows, but even he understood that Davin was not a good squire. "You, boy, would do well to befriend my young Ulnar, who has many of the same interests."

Cetter knew enough to hold himself rigid while the king and Baron Ander introduced their respective kinfolk. Queen Imale was a regal woman whose imperious gaze swept over the family without much pause, but when Cetter bowed to her the queen's answering smile was warm. Arianna was a girl so young as to be beneath Cetter's notice if she weren't a princess—five at the most. She curtsied to him with a little giggle and ignored him after that.

Nelia's introduction warranted a low bow from the king and a compliment that turned her red to her hair. At fourteen, the girl still had a child's ungainliness, but every time she returned home, Cetter saw emerging more of the beautiful woman she would become. But the times when he bothered to think about his solemn older sister were rare indeed, and now he shuffled. He had taken his place standing beside the mix of royal and baronial children while the adults continued with drawn-out courtesies. Nelia hovered awkwardly between the adults and the children, obviously unsure where she even wanted to stand, but Ulnar, Cetter, and Ariana were now firmly out of the adults' interest.

Ulnar stood with Ariana's hand solemnly in his. Cetter almost didn't hear him when the other boy spoke in a low undertone. "Have you a sword?"

"What?" he asked, then added a belated, "your Highness."

"A sword? Have you a real sword?"

"Oh." Cetter nudged a flagstone with his toe, feeling small and foolish beside the prince, even though he knew he was almost a year older. "I don't. I'll have one next spring, though, after I start my weapons training. I start after I take the oath this spring."

Ulnar's young face registered a grudging respect. "I won't start for another year yet. But I have a sword—a real one—with silver in the hilt and a topaz set in the pommel, for when I do start."

Cetter couldn't repress a surge of envy. Even after his weapons training started formally, he wouldn't have a sword until his teachers had grudgingly judged him capable. Until then, he'd carry a long knife, or a spear in the unlikely event that he'd fight to defend the city—just like a peasant foot soldier. Davin hadn't gotten a sword until he was made squire. Until then, boys trained with first wooden and then blunted metal weapons. "Did you bring it?" he asked.

The prince's face fell. "No," he whispered back. "Father says I'm not to carry it until I know what to do with it."

"I have a wooden sword," Cetter confided, suddenly wanting very much for this boy to like him. "I have a sand table with lead soldiers and four real books of my own that I don't have to share with the library." The royal family would only be here for a week or so, but he had few children of rank to play with. His father had told him firmly two years ago—after Cetter had taken the oath that marked him old enough to defend his country—that he should not play with servant's children. Toran supported minor nobility, but those families spent most of their time on their agrarian manors supervising planting and harvest, so their children were not often at court.

Ulnar, though younger, was taller than Cetter. He had a fine, aristocratic face and lively blue eyes, not to mention a real sword back in Holmgard. In short, Cetter decided, he was an ideal companion.

Ulnar considered, lips pursed. "Those are child's toys," he said with disappointment. "What else do you do?"

"Sometimes I go hunting with Father," Cetter retorted, stung. "I've my own pony and two fine knives. And—" he said with a sudden burst of inspiration, "—I know all sorts of secret passages and turns in the palace."

The other boy cocked his head. "Truly?"

It was, if not an outright lie, at least a bald exaggeration. The passages of the palace were delightfully winding and branched, but all the passages were well-lit and well-traveled. But Cetter nodded. "They're all there to fool the Giaks and Darklords. They came in once, you know. They ran around in circles inside the palace, but the Baron and his family and servants hid in the passages to ambush the Giaks and drove them out."

"Show me," the boy said imperiously, his eyes lighting.


	2. Darklands Wars

The pleasantries of station stretched on for hours, it seemed. Finally, with the rain still seething outside, the baron saw to the comfort of the queen and royal children. Then he personally assisted the king with the removal of his wet and clanking armor, rather than delegating it to a servant. His hands were firm and sure as he unbuckled the straps of the breastplate, arm guards, and greaves, and drew each heavy piece from the royal person.

Ander considered the wet suit of plate. "It should be oiled, sire, to prevent rust."

Coran, slumped into an upholstered chair in Ander's private study, shrugged his big shoulders. "Call for someone, then. You're no squire of mine, old friend, and I won't have you doing a servant's work—not while you and I sit here as dry and sober as the day is long."

Studying his old friend, Baron Ander allowed a smile that widened his catlike dark eyes and brought warmth into his ascetic face. At Coran's nod, he pulled out another chair from the large desk and sank into it. Decades of self-discipline kept the weary sigh from his lips, but only barely. He was past forty, and it had been years since his last campaign into chill and wetness. Nor did he forget himself enough to ignore the hint. The bronze bell on his desk summoned a liveried servant, who returned with a freshly opened hand-cask of wine and two goblets. They relaxed into the moment, with the fire in the marble hearth crackling and bright, sending light and shadow into the richly furnished room.

Coran took a deep draught of the wine and sighed. "Ahh. It's been some time since I enjoyed the product of the grapes of Toran. I can tell it's been a good year."

"It has, sire, and the Vintners' Guild is particularly pleased."

Coran grunted, swirling the wine thoughtfully within the silver-chased confines of the glass. The Baron of Toran relaxed, watching the man who had been his friend and was now his king through half-slitted eyes. Coran looked harder, wearier, than he had when they'd last spoken. Ander noted this quietly as he'd noted the unshaven face, the tightness of the strong jaw. He had spent years as the ruler of a barony notorious for ruling itself—or, rather, for being ruled by the guilds and merchants. He knew how to watch and listen.

"I've not seen your family in years," the king noted moodily. "Not for—what is it? Four years now? Your eldest were still children, then, and mine were but babes in arms."

"Ever do the presses of command pull friends apart, sire," Ander observed calmly, refilling the king's glass. Coran waved him away once the glass was half-full, and the baron shrugged. "And, in those intervening years, children will grow."

Coran's face only hardened. "You can spare me the speeches and the courtly graces, Ander."

Ander stiffened, and tried to hide it. "As my lord wishes."

"Ahh!" The king shook his head. "I didn't mean that. You are what you are, my friend. And what you are is a damned good baron." Coran was watching Ander out of the corner of his eye, waiting for a mollified nod. Ever was he like that, Ander thought with a twinge of disdain that surprised him. Always seeking reassurance, craving love and respect from even those people whose loyalty was assured. "I mean—I came here for help. For your help, and your counsel."

Ander nodded, trying not to show his interest. The king seldom traveled himself, especially not at this time of the year, when he should instead be receiving Fehmarn oaths from his army. "What troubles my lord?"

"Fehmarn," the king grunted. "I've come to receive the oath."

"You shall have it, my liege, as always." Ander repressed a flicker of surprise from his face. "Without question. Every man, woman, and child will swear it in person before you if you wish."

Coran grinned wolfishly. "Some of them while gnawing on their livers, no doubt!" He sobered quickly. "No, my friend, Fehmarn is only the official reason why I'm here, though I may have to continue this tradition for some time to avoid raising questions!"

Ander leaned forward, his eyes alert.

"The Guildmaster of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star, Ander," the king said quietly. "What manner of man is he?"

"My lord has met him several times," Ander said pointedly.

"You know him better."

"A good man," the baron said. "Loyal, too."

"I know him." One corner of the king's mouth hovered near a wry smile. "You can add 'stiff' and 'pompous' to that list."

Ander smiled his own half-smile back at the king. "As a man of power should be."

"So _you _say. Ah, hells." Coran rose to pace, his long-legged, lanky form practically radiating excess energy. He'd never been truly at his ease, Ander reflected with a smile, unless he was swinging a sword or astride a horse. Or preferably both at once. "We'll need to speak to him—quietly. Along with Gareth, my personal magician."

"Yes, sire," Ander said calmly, but the baron was now afire with curiosity. He set his goblet down on the desk and waited.

"The border rangers have reported increased activity in the north."

"The Durncrags?" Ander stiffened at the king's nod. "You think the Giaks are massing once again?" More than fifty years ago, an army of the evil creatures beyond the Durncrags had overrun Sommerlund, and the border clashes continued to this day. Talk of war was serious business. "I've had no word."

"Not massing, no." Coran chewed his lip. "Gods save me, I'm a simple man. I know nothing of magic, left-handed or right-handed."

Ander rose to his feet. The king was a good four inches taller than his old friend, but Ander was older and had a self-possession that made him look taller. "Tell me." It was not quite an order, but one of those curt requests that passes unnoticed between close friends.

"Entire patrols have been disappearing. Scouts in the mountains have found scant traces of the missing men—a scrap of cloth here, an arrow shaft there—but signs of some force other than Giak or Drakkarim spears to account for the dead. Burn scars on the ground, withered grass, twisted and tortured rock—"

"Nadziranim," Ander whispered, shocked. "Right-handed magic. They've never come out of the Darklands before, not even during the great wars."

"We _must_ keep this silent, Ander. Of all my barons, you are the one I trust best. You are also the one who controls the magicians—and I'm riding all this on the fact that it's not the other way around. After so many years of war, we don't want to start wild rumors that the Darklords themselves have returned to the battlefield."

"Have they?" Ander could raise his voice no louder than a whisper for that terrible question.

Coran regarded him with haunted eyes. "I cannot tell you for sure whether nightmares are walking the mountains of Sommerlund. Send for your magician, Ander, and I'll send for mine. It is time that we quietly begin to prepare for war."

Cetter was a Giak. Again.

It wasn't fair, the boy reflected grumpily. Mother had told him to obey Prince Ulnar, who outranked him. So when Ulnar wanted to play war, they played war. And Ulnar was the Sommlending hero while Cetter was the Giak. Not only did Cetter have to play a monster, the laws of heroics demanded that he always _lose._ Still, the morning after the king's arrival, both boys wolfed down the same serving of hot, honeyed porridge and bolted for the other's chamber, eager to renew the game.

Cetter knew better than to tussle underfoot. Some servant would scold him like a scullery boy in front of the prince. So the boys had retired to the narrow passages between a wing of mostly unused offices and the servants' chambers that provided for them. Here there were dusty, quiet closets from which a Giak could leap out, snarling. Flights of stairs became the bare, rocky Durncrag mountains, where the a noble border ranger ventured to root out the gray-skinned monsters lurking in ambush. The quiet corridors were filled with the shouts of boyish bravado and the clacking of wooden swords.

Ulnar had been pursuing the fleeing Giak. That was another problem; as a cowardly Giak, he was expected to run away all the time, which was less exciting than chasing. Cetter rounded a corner and doubled back through a narrow side passage. Even though he had to grudgingly defer to Ulnar, Cetter took pride in his success so far. Ulnar would probably grow up bigger and stronger, but Cetter was quicker. He also knew the terrain and took full advantage of the palace's twists and turns. Honor had demanded that Cetter show his friend the area's layout, but the baron's son had a sharper eye for strategy and could still lose his pursuer most of the time.

So Cetter came upon his new friend from behind, grinning at the care with which Ulnar crept forward. Quickly, he removed his soft leather shoes and tiptoed after on silent stocking feet. As Ulnar peered around the passage's bend, Cetter gave him a sharp rap on the shoulder and made a kind of inarticulate grunt that he assumed sounded like a Giak would.

"Ouch!" Ulnar turned and glared at Cetter, rubbing his shoulder. "How'd you get back there? And you're not supposed to kill me, I'm supposed to kill you!"

"Why?" Cetter asked insolently. He reached for his opponent's sword, but Ulnar jerked it back.

"Because I'm a prince, and you're just a filthy Giak."

"No," Cetter said calmly. "You're a border ranger, and I'm a filthy Giak. But for now you're a _dead_ border ranger. If you insist on being a dead prince instead, I'm going to carry your head back to Helgedad and present it for Darklord Vashna to use as a chamber pot. Then you'll be a chamber pot and I'll be a _rich_ Giak."

Ulnar's eyes opened wide in shock. Doubtless, Cetter reflected wryly, the highest-ranking child in the kingdom had never been called a chamber pot before. And even young boys were aware of the seriousness of the threat from the Darklands. The Darklords especially were not spoken of lightly—and seldom in anything louder than whispers. Ulnar's face flushed red. Then he began to laugh. After a moment, Cetter joined him.

They sat down on the floor, leaned against the cool stone wall, and howled. One would sputter into chuckling silence, only to be set off into peals of laughter again when the other whispered "my chamber pot!" in a poor imitation of a sinister Giak hiss. As was the case with boys throughout the world and throughout history, the forbidden became titillating.

"I'm tired of losing," Cetter admitted finally, feeling a renewed kinship with the sometimes-imperious prince.

"Well, you can't kill me," the eight-and-a-half-year-old insisted. "I'm a prince, and I shouldn't be killed by a Giak even in pretend."

"Who would you rather kill you?" Cetter retorted tartly. This whole conversation, he decided, was silly. Even at his age, he knew that you couldn't _pick_ who killed you.

Ulnar had known a good idea when he saw it, and now he brightened. "Darklord Vashna!"

Cetter looked at him in disbelief. The boy's face was still flushed, his blue eyes warm with laughter, and he appeared wholly caught up in this new fantasy. "Don't mock!"

"I'd fight him," Ulnar insisted. "I might die, but it would be a hero's death, and there would be stories and songs about my valor."

Cetter had to concede that was true, but couldn't resist another jibe. "If you saw Darklord Vashna," he said, "you'd piss your breeches and run."

Ulnar's eyes widened again, this time in delight as his new friend again pushed the limits of propriety. "Would not!"

"Would too!"

"I'll show you!" Ulnar leaped to his feet. "Darklord Vashna, I challenge you before the gates of Helgedad!"

Laughing, the boys crossed wooden swords for a time, and Ulnar agreed to retreat. Cetter chased him now with the taste of victory in his mouth. Ulnar had longer legs, but Cetter could remember what was up ahead and take the turns faster, more recklessly, closing the gap between them, until—

Until he ran into his brother and went sprawling.

"Cetter!" Davin frowned down at him. "Are you all right? What are you doing down here?"

"Good evening, my lord," Ulnar piped, emerging from the alcove he'd ducked into in anticipation of an ambush.

"Prince Ulnar." Davin executed a sketchy bow. The older squire studied the flushed, grinning boys and he helped Cetter back to his feet. The boy saw with dismay that he had torn one knee of his trousers, but he seemed whole. "Playing, are you?"

"We're making war against the Darklands," Ulnar insisted gravely.

Davin grinned, the expression taking years off his face. With his sober expression and thin features, he could normally pass for twenty instead of fifteen, for all that he hadn't lost his adolescent lankiness. "So I see. Well, be careful of Giak spears. Sometimes they dip the spear points in dung to cause infection in the wounds."

Ulnar and Cetter made faces of disgust. "What are you doing here?" the older boy asked.

His brother frowned again. "That's none of your concern." He carried two thick books tucked under one arm, Cetter noted. David shifted his cloak to drape over the load when he noticed the direction of Cetter's gaze. "I'm helping Father with something. You shouldn't run in the halls, Cetter, your Highness, not even empty ones such as these. If you knock down a servant, that would be your fault, but the servant would be in trouble, perhaps even whipped if you were hurt."

Cetter grimaced. Davin was too fond of moralizing.

"We'll be careful, my lord," Ulnar assured him with perfect aplomb.

Davin smiled again at the young prince before turning back to Cetter. "You're sure you're all right?"

Cetter weighed appearing brave in front of Ulnar versus laying guilt upon his tiresome older brother. "You made me skin my knee. See, it's drawn blood. But I'm fine. It doesn't even hurt."

"Vashna bleeds!" Ulnar crowed, grinning. "First blood for the heroes of Sommerlund."

Davin started visibly, and his frown deepened, etching lines into his face that would probably become permanent before he reached thirty. "What was that you said, your Highness?"

Ulnar blinked, less certain now. "I'm fighting Darklord Vashna."

"That's me," Cetter said with a defiant lift of his chin. He added by way of explanation, "I'm Darklord Vashna. It's more exciting than being a Giak." Ulnar nodded agreement.

To Cetter's shock, his mild and retiring older brother cuffed him on the ear.

The boy yelped, more out of surprise than pain. "What—"

"Cetter," Davin said icily. "You must _never_ use that name in jest. And to pretend to _be_ him—gods, the foolishness!"

"We were just playing!" the boy sulked.

"Does it matter! The Darklords are evil things, cursed things. Would you pretend to be a murderer or an oathbreaker?"

"Of course not," he muttered, mouth tight.

"Well, a Darklord is a thousand times worse."

"Ulnar had to have someone to fight," Cetter insisted, now more shamed than anything. Not because of Davin's superstitious foolishness, but because the prince had seen him hit and chastised like a child. Cetter punctuated his last point with a half-hearted kick in the shin to make things even. He knew he was behaving like a spoiled child, but he wasn't sure how to make things right in Ulnar's eyes.

Davin sucked in a breath, dropped his books, and yelped an oath that made both of the boys laugh. He lifted a hand, but didn't cuff his brother again. "Father will hear of this," he warned.

"Lord Davin," Ulnar insisted, "Cetter and I are both noblemen who will kill a lot of Giaks when we're squires. We have to practice. And then, when I'm King, I'm going to lead an army into the Darklands up to Helgedad and fight Darklord Vashna in single combat. I'll need to practice a _lot_ for that."

Davin stared at him.

"Noble ambitions, your Highness," a calm voice intruded from behind them. "Noble, if foolhardy."

Two men stood in the hallway, regarding the three boys coolly. Though one was short and the other tall, one middle-aged and the other elderly, they seemed more alike than different. Unarmed, they walked with more easy assurance than a warrior in full plate. Every gesture betrayed a supreme confidence in some hidden power, a power that brought force to their penetrating gazes and dignity to their plain faces.

"Guildmaster Cavenil, Lord Gareth." Davin bowed, his face pale.

Frowning, Cetter realized that he _did_ know these two men. One he had met for the first time when he emerged from the royal carriage yesterday. The other he had seen at state occasions all his life. But he had seen neither out of the blue and silver robes that marked them as full members of the Brotherhood of the Crystal Star and powerful magicians. Both men now wore the rough wool tunics and hoods of workmen, and their badges of rank were out of sight. Ulnar's courtly bow, caught out of the corner of his eye, startled Cetter out of his confusion, and he bowed as well.

Gareth was frowning down at his prince. "Your Highness, Lord Davin is correct in that it is unseemly to speak so of our enemies. It invites misfortune of the worst sort. It is only when we Sommlending grow complacent and forget our hatred of the Darklords that they can push past our defenses."

Cetter's face went red as he wondered how far the echoes had carried his conversation with Ulnar down the long, drafty stone halls—and how much the powerful magicians had heard. Idle talk with another boy was one thing, but to speak so in the presence of lords… "Lord Gareth—" he began miserably.

Ulnar interrupted. "It was all my idea, Lord Gareth. I'm sorry, I just want so much to fight in the Darklands. Cetter was just going along with me because he's a good host."

Cetter stared at him. Davin scowled, but did not correct the prince. What could he do in trying but call his future king a liar in front of two of the most powerful men in the kingdom?

Guildmaster Cavenil favored the prince with a tolerant smile. "Boys will push limits, Gareth," he said with a chuckle. "I know I did, and so did you. So, even, did the sober-faced young man here who tries so well to educate these youngsters." He nodded to Davin, who bowed, flushing, unsure of whether he was being mocked or not. "Consider it forgotten, gentlemen, but you would be wise to find other subjects for daydreams until you are older."

"Yes, sir," Ulnar chirped.

Cetter nodded, bolder now. "Guildmaster? What are you doing down here? Are you here to see my father? Why are you out of your robes? There's nothing down here but old storerooms."

Cavenil considered him for a long moment, frowning. His eyes were very large and very blue, and in that gaze was the promise of the massed power of the entire Brotherhood. Cetter kept his face calm and met that stare without flinching, refusing on some instinctive level to drop his gaze to the floor.

It was then that he felt a push against his mind. Somewhere in the roil of his thoughts was a sense of intrusion, a feeling of wrongness that made Cetter blink. His ears rang and his eyes blurred, but Cetter gritted his teeth and did not budge.

An idea came to him on instinct. He imagined his mind as a whirl of thoughts in an open chest, the kind where the maids kept his clothing. Holding that instinctive picture in his mind, Cetter firmly visualized the chest closing and locking itself, sealing out whatever was pushing its way in. The sense of pressure vanished.

For the barest moment, the Guildmaster's eyes opened wide. Then he blinked, and his faint smile was fatherly. "Questions are commendable, young sir, but I am afraid we have no time to answer them. We are here on matters of counsel to the king and baron."

The younger two were curious, but Davin knew a dismissal when he heard one. "Our apologies, my lords. Come along, Cetter, your Highness. You're underfoot. Why don't you head out to the practice yard, where swordplay is more acceptable?"

Reluctantly, Cetter turned after Ulnar to shuffle outside. Cavenil had dropped to one knee to retrieve the books Davin had dropped. "Your books, young sir?"

Davin flushed to the roots of his hair. "Yes, Guildmaster."

Cavenil frowned at the titles for a long moment, before his expression lightened into the same friendly smile and he passed the books back to Davin. "Take care not to drop them too many times," he chided gently. "These are old books—and good ones."

"Yes, sir," Davin muttered. "By your leave?" At their nods, he fled.

Ulnar, with a final bow, was already leaving. Cetter was slower, now conscious of the magicians' eyes on him. His skin crawled. Had the Guildmaster been trying magic on him? The magician had seemed like a decent man before—Nelia was in training with him, and she spoke highly of her Guildmaster. But Cetter couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to the Guildmaster's gaze than the paternal mildness in there now. And now, even worse, Lord Gareth had turned to regard the boy with a frown, as though sensing where the Guildmaster's veiled attention lay.

_It was just a game,_ Cetter thought sullenly. _I wasn't really pretending to be Vashna. That's no reason to use magic on me._ And maybe, the boy's overactive imagination told him, it had been right-handed magic, the kind of magic that twisted your soul and caused death. No, no, Cutter scolded himself. Accusing someone of using right-handed magic was almost as horrible as accusing them of being a Darklord.

But the boy couldn't repress a shiver of dread as Gareth said, "Come here, boy."

Ulnar had turned the corner. Cetter was alone with the two magicians, who suddenly seemed less brave defenders of the realm than threats to him personally. But one couldn't refuse an order from a magician. Only a noble or king could do that, and then only with reason. Helplessly, he walked to stand before the royal magician.

The old man seized his chin in surprisingly strong fingers, turning his startled face to one side, then the other, as though studying it. When their eyes met, Cetter clearly saw the magician's face pale by several shades. They stared at each other.

"Remarkable child," Gareth murmured, his tone of voice odd, his expression odder.

"Run along, boy," Guildmaster Cavenil said. There was an edge in his voice, but it didn't seem to be directed at Cetter.

Cetter managed not to run until he had turned a corner. Then he sprinted all the way to the practice yard, not caring if the magicians could hear the echoes of his pounding feet.

"What did they want?" Ulnar asked curiously when Cetter re-appeared. The boy hung off the fence watching bright-eyed as the squires fired arrows into straw practice dummies.

"Just to scold me again," Cetter said, not watching.

Ulnar looked at him solemnly. "I did it to protect you."

Cetter stared at him. "What?"

"I told them it was my idea to talk about…about Vashna. I'm my father's only son and a prince. They won't dare do anything to me. I wouldn't want to see you whipped or anything."

Cetter considered that, and let the stress of that last encounter melt into a slow smile. "Thanks," he said.

"You made a bad Darklord, anyway," Ulnar sniffed. "You weren't at all scary."

"I think that's a good thing," Cetter said reflectively.

The two boys leaned against the fence and listened to the thud of arrows and the hoarse insults of the weapons-masters. Cetter tried to forget the crawling feeling at the nape of his neck.


End file.
